


equanimity_&_passivity.docx

by perfidiousalbion



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, i'm glad he was at the dinner, qwerty is my favourite character, tyrelliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfidiousalbion/pseuds/perfidiousalbion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what happened after tyrell came to elliot's apartment. alternately, tyrell and elliot are made for each and my little heart can't take it</p>
            </blockquote>





	equanimity_&_passivity.docx

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing a fic for A03. hope you enjoy! :) (unedited, so feel free to suggest changes). title from 'dull tool' by fiona apple

I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. You probably don’t want to know. Still, since you’re not even real I suppose it can’t hurt, can it? Not any more than anything else does, anyway.  
  
So anyway, I figure now that it was because of the confusion. Because there was so much I didn’t know and because I half-expected every second that I’d wake up or come to and I’d just been hallucinating, or that that guy who worked in the shop nearby was my brother, or that I was related to everyone in this city, or that I was hallucinating them, hallucinating myself, that I was God. Maybe I am God. Then again, you’d think God would have the slightest illusion of control. I have nothing. Everything happens around me and it isn’t in the good way, either. I’m not the sun. Nothing orbits around me but stray thoughts that are dissolving faster than I can contain them. No—the world around me is like the wind to a flag. Completely controlling everything it does, constantly moving and whipping around heads full of beautiful and terrible things while the flag just flaps in the breeze like it’s told to. Like a good boy.  
  
So anyway, I think now that’s why I didn’t find it that strange. I kept expecting Tyrell to disintegrate, to admit that he was a figment of my imagination, consequence of my saturated mind. I didn’t protest as he slipped round my door, shushing me—what did he think I was going to do, start yodelling?—before slipping his jacket from his broad shoulders and folding it on a calculated manner over the back of a chair. I barely even reacted when he confessed to his murder. After all, so what? People die—one minute they’re pulsating and they’re 0 and 1 and 0 and 1 and 0 and the next they’re folded in the boot of the car you’ve been driven around in for the past day with a bullet wound straight through them. I reacted when he came that close though. It was a mixture of the invasion of my space, that feeling of vertigo I instantly got as my body begged me to fall backwards, away from the offending presence, and the added passivity that came with the acceptance that none of this might be real.  
  
I’m not going to say he’s beautiful, because he isn’t. His mouth is naturally downturned, like a sulky child’s, and his toothy smile never reaches those cold, impassive eyes. Still, he’s got a face, and that’s always a nice bonus when someone places their hands on either side of your face and presses their lips to yours like there’s no tomorrow. If you don’t want to hear this—wait, you can’t stop listening, can you? I control that, at least.  
I didn’t resist when those same gloved hands pressed harder against my neck, far too hard, too hard for me to breathe, not that this was unusual because everything and the panic and the morphine—they take their toll. But he kept kissing me, so I didn’t protest until I really couldn’t breathe anymore and I tried to tell him but just ended up parting our mouths, pulling back so that I could look into his eyes. I remember thinking that if I died right there and then it wouldn’t even be so bad. I’d never seriously considered suicide before, but there had definitely been some days when I purposely didn’t look before crossing the road. However, this didn’t stop the fleeting thought that this was all for the best, that everything was finally going to calm down, that I could just be peaceful from now on. I looked into his eyes and I waited patiently for release.  
  
It didn’t come, obviously, or I wouldn’t be able to tell you this now. The pressure loosened and Tyrell slumped as though he was a doll dropped carelessly by a child. He put his forehead on my shoulder—oh god, oh god, that’s not your space, fuck off fuck off—and wound his arms around my chest. It took me a while to recognise the sounds he was making as sobs. I knew what I should do, of course—well, in the most literal sense I should have stepped away—but I knew that crying people cried because they wanted comfort, so I forced my screaming body to gently stroke his back, to hold him as he was holding me. It was an odd sensation—Tyrell didn’t act as though he was a person. It was near impossible to imagine him snacking secretly behind the back of his health-nut wife, or watching a film just for the enjoyment of it. He walked about like he was ambition incarnate, like the jokes he made about not being human were hints of a kind. Yet, here he was, clutching to me like a drowning person.  
  
I pushed him away gently but firmly, my hands wound tight in his sleeves, not quite able to forget the pain around my throat, noting with some hesitancy that he hadn’t yet taken his gloves off. I caught his eyes and lowered my hands to his, slowly peeling the thick, baggy latex from his fingers, dropping the offending objects to the floor. The next time he wound his hands around my neck I suppressed the natural panic that threatened and and closed my eyes as he pulled he forwards, slightly more roughly than last time, suffocating me with his needy want. I reciprocated, allowing him to push me backwards against the wall, slightly uncomfortably, and unzip my hoodie, pushing it to the ground carelessly. The sudden rush of cold air coupled with the heat from his hands and his mouth was overwhelming, and I turned my head to the side to gasp at the air, letting it burn my lungs. He pressed his open mouth to the side of my head and breathed my name in my ear. I resisted the urge to twitch away—I hate whispering.  
  
You probably don’t want to hear the rest. It’s probably easy enough to piece together for yourself. Do you have thought processes, my silent friend? Were you as overwhelmed by that as I was, are you as suffocated by him and his presence as I am? Probably not, now that I think about it. I’ve got issues, I know that much at least. I guess he’s just one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> i love feedback! :)


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